It Devours
by manarchronism
Summary: He never gave her a eulogy, her epitaph was scrawled gibberish, and the mourning was half passed. Yet, he was the only one who remained


**_It's alive! Dear god, it lives!_**

* * *

"I love her."

Oddly enough, that statement wasn't exactly true. It was more of an understatement, he was not close enough to her to say he could love her. He didn't truly know her. The best he could claim that it was that he was obsessed with her. The way her orange locks waved in the wind when she stood, the way her pink orbs would control him. The way her voice invoked a feeling of security within him. But he thinks he loves her. So when the words pass his lips, he believes in his lie.

"I really-really love her," he says, his expression forlorn. Red eyes take in the steaming grill on the other side of the counter. The hot air rises as he watches it lift until there's nothing left of it. There are only four people in the store, and they are all just minding their own business. There's some brunette chick sitting at a table not too far away, just looking at her book as she ate her salad and tea. There's the geeky fry cook, that was probably stuck covering someone else's shift. The boils on the kid's face sweltered like the bubbling welts of meat on the grill. He sees the icy crackle in his drink, its opacity dimming further.

His brother, Butch, the green one, picks a handful of fries from the basket and shoves them into his mouth, openly chewing. Brick cringes as he looks away, at the dirty floor of the restaurant. Dust builds up in the corner as ants crawl against the offwhite cracked tiles. He gives a deep sigh and looks away. He looks out at the watery cadmium yellow sky. It bleeds into the reflection of the window, turning his eyes into a weird orange tint.

Its smile slowly creeps up as he stares. The image is much too devious to be his own reflection. It has to be his father, and this would be the first time he had seen him since his death.

"Brick?" Butch calls, shaking him from his thoughts. Brick looks at his wide-eyed brother. He swears he sees a mischevious glint of yellow in his eyes, but its quickly shadowed by his eager green orbs.

"Hm?"

"You haven't touched your sundae," he announced. "It's beginning to run."

Brick watched as the pink cream began to drip out of its red cone, it glistens, and its soft texture reminds him of the gentle skin that he had the pleasure of touching almost every day when she was still around. He picked up the spoon and dug into the frozen treat. The utensil dug into it, slowly shoveling a small portion into his mouth.

The cream meets his lips and he can already feel its softness cool his lips. It reaches his tongue, slowly dissipating away like snowflakes against a window.

It's almost as delicious as he dreamed she was.

* * *

 ** _she drank like she died; aware and in the end, silent._**

* * *

Brick wasn't an idiot. He knew Blossom was always using him as a tool against Him. Although he was a lovesick fool, he wasn't blind to clear manipulation. Constant seduction and propositions for information. Dates that were solely just talking at a nice dinner and her just wanting to go straight home after.

He was disappointed that she wasn't too good at pretending. She thought he didn't know. She never actually cared about him, despite the fact that he was the only one who would try cheer her up when she got into one of her moods. Who the fuck bought her cups of coffee at the stroke of dawn? Who stood outside of her classes, holding her next set of textbooks for her next class? Who the _fuck_ listened to her bitch about his own father? Who was the one keeping her grades up after she started ditching school?

And who the heck did she decide to take to prom? His whiny blue-eyed brother, who was already in love with her ditzy sister. Life must have had it in for him, and he decided he would no longer be the one getting screwed over.

That was what he decided, as he sat on the lush graveyard grass. Infront of her tombstone, It was decorated, with all sorts of flowers, including blossoms. He guessed he was among all the decorations, lost in his thoughts as they sat in the middle of a graveyard. He had become disillusioned with the thought of her being with him as if she hadn't died. It was a hard bite to swallow, and it took longer than necessary.

The grass tickles his neck, leaving his shoulders lax. He wished he could sink into the gritty depths of the graveyard, and join her in the unholiness that awaited them. His eyes shift to the sky, the passing clouds seem to stop, and time gives him a break for the first time in his life.

* * *

 ** _Lust can be confused with Love._**

* * *

His fathers, his dads, his...creators. There were many names he and his brothers called them, but never with any actual affection. It was hard to love the people who neglected you. Cast you away, deem you as a lesser being. Labeled as simply a child, who was just evil. Brick knew that he could never be good, no matter how much he tried.

How hard he had tried to claw his way into her heart and nest within it. How much time that could never be bought back. He wasn't angry or resentful towards her. He was just disappointed. He didn't want to give a crap about her anymore, he really wanted to wipe the slate clean.

Maybe he could love someone else. Maybe he could learn how to love? Maybe he didn't need her. He wasn't even sure if he ever even lusted after her.

* * *

 **And so, absolutely no lesson is learned**

* * *

His skin crawled as he stared at his brother in the middle of the room, his eyes empty and hollow. His hands are covered in blood. He is eating the dinner on the table that Boomer intended for him. Butch looks at his brother momentarily. Highs and specks of yellow flash in his eyes. Brick is slightly enamored with them.

"You're still sitting around?" Butch chuckled. "It's been a few weeks. Get over it, she died. Cry me a fucking river, the bitch was-"

Brick shuts out his brother's voice. More obsessed with how pleasing his appearance was. Unlike he and Boomer, Butch was built with absolute muscle, sometimes he was jealous of the raw strength Butch had.

Not that it mattered. Brick had to be the one who was strong. The one who actually didn't lose themselves to time. Brick was the only fucking rowdyruff left. His brothers had gone astray. Butch was a full-fledged criminal, and Boomer had run off to some place.

Butch swears that Brick's face is paling, and looking eerily similar to that of their father's.


End file.
